


Our House, Filled With Love

by Armos



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Bella is Mama, Bitch I'm a Mother! No Drama! the AU, Description of a suicide, F/M, Family Feels, Hallucinations, Hannibal has arrived, He sucks, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Will is a Mess, Will is a spoiled brat, alternating pov, and Will is their adopted son, and yes, eventual hannigram, immediately thirsty for Will and I don't blame him, in which Jack is the ULTRA DAD, tags and relationships to be added as Will grows up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Armos/pseuds/Armos
Summary: Eventually, after a particularly hard day out in the field, Jack came home to his beautiful Bella clutching a stack of papers to her chest.  She tearfully informed him that they were approved and that the agency sent over a list of kids for them to look at.  They spent the rest of the night pouring over the papers, discussing future family scenarios, what raising a kid would be like, how their lives would change.  Jack wanted to adopt a son, possibly large and stocky like him.  Bella was dead set on one child in particular.Bella won the fight in the end.The couple would move on to apply for the adoption of one Will Graham, a sullen skinny little thing with too big ears and too blue eyes and unruly hair sticking out everywhere.  He wasn’t smiling in his picture, with a furrowed brow and a pout to his lips, and was labeled as emotionally disturbed.
Relationships: Bella Crawford & Will Graham, Bella Crawford/Jack Crawford, Jack Crawford & Will Graham, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 96





	1. Prologue//Adjustments

**Author's Note:**

> The Crawfords-adopt-Will AU no one asked for but I decided to provide.

When his darling Bella brought up the idea of adoption Jack immediately rejected the idea. They were both busy people with busy careers who hardly had time for each other- much less a child. Then he thought about it a little more. Would they regret not having children down the road? What if one of them got sick or died? Wouldn’t it be lonely for the person left behind? 

Jack carefully brought the idea back up a few days later, acting as though it was his idea all along. Bella just levelled him with a look and told him they’d look into the process later in the week. 

It was a long arduous process, much more complicated than either of them believed it would be. Jack had been under the impression that maybe they’d have to attend a few interviews, pass a few background checks, and voila they’d have a kid. 

He was a fool for thinking it’d be that simple. There were interviews and background checks, sure. There were also classes and trainings Bella and he had to attend and home sweeps to see if they fit certain criteria to be a healthy fit as parents and a god-awful amount of money and paperwork involved. It was overwhelming and hard and some days Jack just wanted to drop the idea all together. It led to a few marital spats but he always came back around to the idea. 

Eventually, after a particularly hard day out in the field, Jack came home to his beautiful Bella clutching a stack of papers to her chest. She tearfully informed him that they were approved and that the agency sent over a list of kids for them to look at. They spent the rest of the night pouring over the papers, discussing future family scenarios, what raising a kid would be like, how their lives would change. Jack wanted to adopt a son, possibly large and stocky like him. Bella was dead set on one child in particular. 

Bella won the fight in the end. 

The couple would move on to apply for the adoption of one Will Graham, a sullen skinny little thing with too big ears and too blue eyes and unruly hair sticking out everywhere. He wasn’t smiling in his picture, with a furrowed brow and a pout to his lips, and was labeled as emotionally disturbed. 

They were approved. 

//

Will was a quiet kid. It took him two months to utter anything to his new parents. There was even an incident where he tried to run away in the middle of the night only to come home thirty minutes later when he realized it was wet and cold outside and the house he just fled was warm and dry. 

It was the first time Jack yelled at him. 

It was also the first time Will cried since moving in. 

Bella had gently led the crying boy from the room and sat him down at the kitchen counter, stroked his hair, wrapped him up in a warm blanket, and gave him a steaming mug of apple cider. She let him calm down on his own as she hummed and washed the dishes, his occasional sniffle interrupting the soothing tune, before asking him why he tried to run away. 

He responded that he didn’t know and buried his head in his arms. 

He avoided Jack for two weeks after that. Jack eventually caved, the angry glares his wife leveled his way and the guilt weighing on him driving him to action, and he sat down with Will in his room to apologize for yelling. He told the boy that he had been worried when they couldn’t find him and he didn’t want anything bad to happen to him. He said that when Will came home soaking wet and cold, obviously having run off without considering his actions, he was admittedly hurt that Will was unhappy with them. He didn’t want Will to think he was a bad father. It was the first time he called Will his son. 

Will cried again. 

From that day on Will slowly opened up more, insisting on waiting up if Jack or Bella were late coming home from work and on washing the dishes once dinner was done. He’d hug Bella goodbye in the mornings before school and look up to Jack with a wide-too-blue gaze, hands twitching at his sides as though he was fighting the urge to latch on like a baby koala, before nervously running out the door and away from Jack’s open and willing arms. 

Will’s unwillingness to open up to Jack frustrated him. The boy would quietly chatter away with Phyllis about school and books when he would get home from school. He’d whisper good morning and good night to her daily. Then his gaze would meet Jack’s, slow and hesitant, and he’d bolt from the room like a spooked cat. 

Seven months into this tango and Jack had had enough. He told Phyllis he was taking a weekend off from work and taking _ his son  _ on a boy’s fishing trip-  _ no, Bella, it does NOT matter that I don’t know how to fish it’s about bonding- _ and to take some time to enjoy a quiet house to herself for a while. She waved them off with a smile a few days later in the early morning. He thought she looked beautiful with her hair down and wild and curly, wrapped up in a shawl and her pjs, with a hot mug of tea resting peacefully in her hand. She later told him Will had rolled his eyes behind his back when he had kissed her goodbye. It made him inexplicably happy to hear. 

The fishing trip went surprisingly well. Apparently Will already knew the basics, nervously and stiltedly teaching Jack how to bait and cast a line. Over time the boy grew bolder, talked a little louder, allowed a twitchy smile or nervous giggle to bubble past his lips when a fish would nibble on his line. He and Jack yelled in unison when Jack caught his first fish, Jack victoriously unhooking and waving the flopping creature in the air before releasing it back into the water as Will excitedly jumped around in the background. In the excitement Will’s hook came dangerously close to Jack’s eye. 

They set up camp, settled in for a long weekend, and made the most of their time on the water's edge. It was the perfect father-son bonding weekend but it was over all too soon. 

Will started hugging Jack goodbye in the mornings before school. Jack was unbearably smug about it from a whole month, proud and smarmy about earning Will’s affection all on his own. Bella would just roll her eyes at him and kiss him on the cheek. 

Will also developed a fishing obsession. It started out relatively small. He asked for some lures to put on his desk in his room. Then he got his own personal rod for Christmas that he proudly mounted on some hooks on the wall. Jack bought him his own lure making kit and books on how to organize tackle boxes. 

This evolved into Will asking for more and more fishing trips over time, insisting on it remaining a “boy’s trip” because _ I go on adventures with Mama all the time but you’re so busy-- _

And then a year into Will living with his new family he finally called Jack the “D” word. 

He had hesitantly shuffled into the living room, twitchy and ready to bolt, up to where Jack was reading on his tablet on the couch. Jack looked at him, a smile and a question forming on his lips, when it just blurted out of Will’s lips: 

“Can I call you Daddy?” 

That too-wide too-blue gaze intently staring somewhere up and to the left of Jack’s eyebrow. Jack was frozen in place, smile still half-formed on his face, as the question sunk into his brain slowly. The longer it took him to reply the more agitated Will became until he turned to leave the room, eyes glassy, with a hurt utterance Jack didn’t quite catch. 

Before Will could make it out the room Jack squeaked out a, “Yes- you uh- you can call me..... that-” 

Hearing that Will turned around stiffly and stomped over to Jack’s sprawled form. He stood next to the couch, looking at the floor and shoulders shaking, before launching himself at the prone man and latched onto him like a leech. Neither of them commented on the wet patch on Jack’s shoulder as Will sniffled into his shirt. 

Jack went back to reading and Will into a doze, face pressed tight between Jack’s shoulder and the couch, where they stayed for a few hours. Jack eventually carried the young boy to his bedroom and tucked him into bed. 

From that day on he was Daddy just as Bella was Mama. 

The next few months passed by much too quickly for Jack’s liking. He and Bella were worried about Will’s lack of social life- often downright refusing to even discuss the possibility of talking to his fellow classmates- and even tried taking Will to a few therapists. The few therapists they did try were either horribly insulting in how they dealt with the boy or they would give them a referral for a different doctor a few sessions in. 

Will was forced into psych evals and pushy therapy. Invasive questions made him lash out, quick and angry, and he continued to sink in on himself. His parents grew more and more concerned with watching their son grow defensive and prickly, even snapping at them on occasion after his sessions, or leaving the Psych Center in a daze drawn into some headspace far away from the world around him.

The first official diagnosis they received was autism. However, when trying to ask the doctors for advice to help support Will’s mental health at home they were given a lot of vague answers. No one seemed to want to offer support- only to study their boy like a test subject in a lab. Therapy was less and less supportive and more and more prodding into the young boy’s psyche.

Will would often come home from these sessions, hopping from doctor to doctor, complaining they only ever asked about his parents. When he’d tell them that his Daddy and Mama were doing fine at home the doctor’s would insist - _ no, Will, I meant your real parents-  _ and that would lead to some of the worst tantrums Will could possibly throw in a doctor’s office. Jack would usually be pulled aside by a frustrated and angry doctor after these appointments only to be told his usually quiet son got up and threw something at a window or ripped a couch cushion open or smashed a picture frame. These hushed and whispered conversations usually ended with a referral to a new office and a bill for damages.

After Will was diagnosed with an empathy disorder-  _ dear LORD did that explain some behaviors-  _ Jack became a little paranoid. As his Bella would say, ridiculously overprotective. He, quite simply, didn’t want people taking advantage of his son or lashing out at him because they just didn’t understand how his mind worked. They didn’t even understand how Will’s mind worked- how could they trust outsiders to understand? 

Will eventually put his foot down-  _ I'm not throwing a tantrum, Daddy! Mama tell him _ \- and firmly stated that he would not see any more therapists. That particular discussion ended with a few slammed doors and Will spending a few hours angrily making lures with tears in his eyes before Bella made him come out for dinner. 

She and Jack told Will they’d respect his wishes about therapy for the time being but if they felt like they needed to bring the topic back up in the future they would. He accepted it with about as much grace as an eleven-year-old with tear stains on splotchy red cheeks could muster. 

And so, Jack started teaching Will about psychology and psychoanalysis. He kept it basic. Just minor things to help Will understand what emotions, thoughts, or motivations he might mirror from other people. Different tells people give when lying and when manipulating. 

Needless to say, Jack created a little monster. Will started frequently being called into the principal’s office at the behest of enraged teachers because Will would accuse them of lying, manipulating, and omitting truths in their lessons or when speaking to the class at large. His fellow classmates avoided him even more because he was the freak who made the teacher mad in addition to knowing who had a crush on who or who stole someone’s candy out of their lunchbox earlier that day with just a glance.

Bella was exasperated. Jack couldn’t have been prouder.

Jack was aware that maybe, possibly, he and his wife were spoiling their son. Jack acknowledged that Will was a bit bratty and rude to anyone who wasn’t his parents if it was brought to his attention by a friend or colleague. The issue here was Jack really just… did not care. As far as he was aware, Will was perfectly respectful and considerate of his family and that’s all that mattered. He’d rather have a bratty spoiled son than an overly kind and obedient child that was liable to being plucked off the street by a stranger. Bella told him he was being paranoid and that they had to curb Will’s rude behavior. Jack merely told her that, quite possibly, those adults deserved Will’s cold shoulder. Will could read their intentions better than they could, being able to see straight through others intentions, words, and actions, after all.

However, with the more he learned about the human psyche the more manipulative Will became. Jack could see through these choppy attempts at manipulation easily but they were harmless enough Jack just let it go. Will, for all intents and purposes, was a clingy child but refused to ask for the attention he wanted vocally so he relied on a more subtle approach. Bella tried to discourage Jack from allowing this behavior but Jack didn’t have the heart to lecture the boy for not knowing how to ask for things outright. He told Bella that it felt mean to deny Will his attempts at asking for affection. Bella told him he was wrapped around Will’s little finger. He couldn’t quite deny that either.

Will had eventually taken to leaving drawings and pictures of dogs around the house by the time his 12th birthday was rolling around. He made little clay figurines he displayed on the kitchen counter. He shoved cut out magazine pictures into Jack’s shoes and pinned them to the inside of Bella’s shirts. He even made a few fishing lures that were obviously canine inspired. Jack and Bella made a joke about it later that night, the unholy combination of Will’s hyperfixations taking over the house, before Bella tentatively brought up the idea of adopting a dog.

Once again Jack immediately refused.

A few days later he found himself driving an excited Will and his forever exasperated wife to some podunk barnyard in the middle of nowhere to meet a litter of puppies the family was trying to rehome. Apparently the family’s lab had gotten out one night and came back pregnant and they couldn’t afford to keep the whole litter. Jack figured Will had been begging for a dog and he was tired of finding cut out pictures of dogs shoved into all of his belongings so he figured they’d do the family a favor and take a puppy off their hands. Will was quite aware the dog would be his responsibility, including cleaning after any messes it would make, and Jack secretly thought it would be good for Will mentally and emotionally.

Will named it Kevin. Jack thought it was a horrible name to give to a dog but Will seemed happy so he didn’t argue.

Kevin was maybe the more lethargic puppy Jack ever owned. All the dog did was sleep and follow Will from room to room. Fortunately, where he made an absolutely horrible guard dog Kevin made a wonderful fishing companion. Will would wade deep into the water on their camping trips, gently coaxing the growing dog into the water with him, and Jack could admit he’d never seen a happier kid. Will took the dog’s training very seriously- his schedule narrowed down to a science- and with the help of many many dog training books purchased Kevin became a well-trained but lazy house pet.

When Will started to sleepwalk, Kevin would follow him around and make sure the boy stayed safe. If Will went to open the door in his sleep state Kevin would bark loud enough to startle Jack out of bed so he could guide the boy back to his bed. Sometimes Will would come to on his own, standing in the hallway, and would use the opportunity to shuffle his way into Jack and Phyllis’ room to curl up and sleep in their bed. Neither of his parents mentioned how he was maybe too old to be sleeping with them because they knew he never had the chance when he was younger.

It was on a normal weekend morning when Will left for his customary dog walk around the neighborhood. He had explicit instructions not to talk to any strangers- _ like I would, Daddy _ \- and to stick to the sidewalk. He wasn’t allowed to wander off too far away. For all the freedoms most thirteen year olds fought for he was oddly content with the restrictive nature of his parent’s rules.

Will came home much earlier than anticipated, out of breath and panicking- eyes twitching and glancing around the room- with Kevin anxiously tangling Will’s legs up with his leash. Will stumbled over to Jack and weakly stuttered out:

“There’s a dead body at the playground.”


	2. Dried Jerky

Will could feel the tug of the leash in his hand, hear the happy huffs of breath coming from Kevin, as he walked around the block and toward the playground near his home. He liked to think he was a generally responsible thirteen year old, all things considered, so he wasn’t about to upset his parents by wandering off in the neighborhood. He definitely wanted to. He wanted to explore different nooks and crannies, peer into back alleyways to see if anything dark and gloomy was happening. Maybe help someone in need if he stumbled across something suspicious. Make his Daddy proud that he was able to shoo off some bad guy or another. That was all fantasy though.

So he kept to his usual brisk walk around the playground and back toward the house.

He was a little ahead of schedule today. Mama had promised him Daddy would be home all day today unless some particularly nasty crime occured off in the city that he had to rush off to and his Mama would be home- given a day off from her NATO duties. It was rare they all had the opportunity to spend time together as a full family unit. 

He knew it wasn’t fair to Kevin, cutting his walk short, but he was starting to get antsy and wanted to get home. He felt safe. Secure. Loved.

He hadn’t spent much time in the orphanage before the Crawfords took him home. He couldn’t remember very many details of what had happened to make him end up in need of a new family but sometimes it came back to him in hazy waves.

Police sirens and lights outside his old bedroom window.

Vomiting.

A weird smell in the air.

A kind older woman with sad eyes telling him his father was dead.

Will hadn’t noticed he had stopped walking, lost in his thoughts. He was stationary in the middle of the playground, strangely empty for relatively early on a Saturday morning, and he stood staring at nothing and everything. A strange buzz building in the back of his mind and out of his ears, He vaguely thought he might look like an old cartoon, angry steam pouring out of him and he could hear a train whistle ringing loudly into the air. His limbs felt heavy and slow like he was dipped in a barrel of tar and told to walk it off.

He vaguely felt himself shake his head, as though trying to clear whatever was clogging it with cotton. He felt like he was watching himself in slow-motion, heavy and bolted to the floor but also floating about his own head. There was a high pitched whining sound and he distantly realized it was him.

Blinking, he was suddenly looking up at Kevin from the ground, unsure of how he ended up in a fetal position. The dog was barking but it was muffled to him, jumping on and off of him in an anxious fit, and he shook his head. As his head turned a figure loomed dark and ghastly in the corner of his eye. Focusing as hard as he could the image came into view.

A dead body stared right back at him. It’s eyes bore into his, worming their way into his mind and taking root. It was overwhelming. He could feel the vomit trying to fight its way past his lips and onto the ground. A sharp tangy smell in the air wafted into his nose and he wondered if it was the smell of death.

The corpse looked relatively fresh. It was a man, dark curly hair splayed behind him like a halo. His skin was tinted blue, lips turning into a dark purple, and his eyes were wide open. There was a discarded hat laying next to him and his faded blue flannel shirt was rumpled and covered in oil smudges.

Will felt immense sadness. A kind of deep seated loneliness seemed to drift into him in waves. He could feel the regret, not over dying, but that he would be taking his son with him. The feeling this man gave him was familiar and hollow.

In the back of his mind he could see the stove and burners being turned on, electric heaters on their highest settings blasting hot air around the house, windows shut and sealed tight. He knew his son was sleeping in his bedroom. A nine year old little boy who looked like him and moved through life like a ghost. He knew it’d be better if they both just disappeared, two formless shapes fading away in their sleep.

But these images and feelings didn’t make sense. The dead man wasn’t in a house. He was at the playground.

Will screwed his eyes shut and scrambled to his feet, blindly stumbling as he turned his back on the grisly scene behind him. He realized he had dropped Kevin’s leash at some point but the lab hadn’t wandered away. In fact, he was tugging on Will’s pant leg, whining, trying to get his attention and drag him home.

With that thought and a deep breath to clear his head, Will grabbed the leash and took off in a sprint to his house. His Daddy was home. His Daddy would know what to do about the man at the playground.

He could feel his body shaking and jerking as he pulled open the door to his house and stumbled in. Kevin was running anxious circles around him, wrapping him up in the tangle of the leash and threatening to topple him over. He sought out his Daddy with anxious eyes and staggered over to him. He felt hysterical.

“There’s a dead body at the playground.”

As soon as the words left his mouth he saw his father straighten up from his slouched position on the couch.

“Did you see anything else? Anyone around the area?”

Will shook his head no.

He felt strong hands cup his face, his father’s head looming into view as he checked Will over, and he stared at his left ear. He was guided to the couch with firm instructions to stay put as Jack went out to investigate the playground.

Bella had come into the room when she heard the commotion, taking a seat next to Will on the couch and tugging him into a comforting embrace. He could feel her stroking his hair, softly pulling out twigs and grass out of curly locks. He could feel the tears welling up in his eyes. She crooned in his ear quietly and he found himself lulled to fitful sleep.

It was late into the evening when he woke up, a warm blanket tucked around his frame, and he snuggled his face against the side of the couch wanting to chase the feeling of sleep. His ears perked up at the sound of voices in the kitchen mummering in low tones.

He pushed himself up and walked over to the kitchen door, stalking quietly up to the doorway. He strained his ears to listen.

“I’m telling you, Bella, there was no body. Nothing was there. Just an empty park.”

“Well, he had to have seen something, Jack.”

“I think-,” a sigh of frustration, “I think he was seeing things.”

“Are you saying our son is hallucinating? Jack, that’s a serious issue.”

Will quietly backed away from the door. He was certain it had been a real body but now that he thought about it a little more it made sense that it wasn’t. He just didn’t quite understand why he saw…. What he saw.

“They found him in the house with his father. This might have something to do with that.”

“Are you implying Will has PTSD? Bella, the boy refuses any and all therapy. PTSD isn’t just something we can ignore and hope goes away.”

Will wanted to throw up.

Over the next few weeks Will ignored any attempts his parents made to get him to open up about the experience. He refused to acknowledge it happened. Will could tell it was frustrating and they were scared for him, the bags under their eyes darker and more prominent than he ever saw on them before.

He walked in on his Daddy reading child psychology and PTSD books more than once. Heard his Mama talking softly with specialists on the phone, asking for advice and services she knew Will would refuse. He didn’t like that he was lashing out at them. It was his own brain that was causing this issue and making him see things. But he was thirteen and scared of his own brain and, honestly, scared of losing his family and being shipped off back to state facilities because they couldn’t handle his crazy.

He stonewalled any attempts to talk about it or think about it. Instead, he took to insisting it was a freak occurrence. It wouldn’t happen again. He was fine.

He developed night terrors. Had frequent vivid nightmares. Every night it was the same.

Police sirens outside his bedroom window. He was sweating, shaking, and there was vomit on his pillow and his shirt. It was unbearably hot in his house but he was too heavy and weak to pull off his shirt.

He heard banging on the door, voices yelling outside, and a large crash. Will saw his door opening and figures like people running into his room. They grabbed at him and started carrying him from his room. He fought back weakly, terrified and confused, as they brought him outside.

As they carried him, his head lolling and flopping against a shoulder, he met his father’s eyes. His father was laying on the ground, skin tinting blue. His lips were purple. His eyes were blown wide open.

As Will stared into those dead eyes he felt unbearably lonely.

He would wake up from these dreams screaming. To prevent his parents breaking into his room, concerned about the screams, he tried shoving towels and shirts around the cracks in his bedroom door. He stole his Mama’s lavender scented oils and slathered his pillows in the scent hoping the comforting scent would bring him kind dreams. He even took to playing white noises at night, hoping the nature sounds would bring him peace or at the very least drown out his own voice.

It didn’t fool his parents one bit.

He pretended it did.

Time marched one. The dreams remained. Middle school graduation came and went.

Will started high school already hating the general student population just as much as he hated middle school. There were too many bodys that’d press and touch against each other in the hallway and too many smells. The smell was the worst and he feared it was himself. He had a bit of a sweating problem due to hormones, nerves, and chaotic thoughts so he always kept a fresh shirt and deodorant in his bag.

He excelled in his classes but failed miserably at class participation, as always. He attempted friendliness once or twice but his friendships tended to fall apart quickly, like wet tissue paper. The few parties he was pity-invited to were lackluster and he always felt vaguely guilty drinking. He didn’t like going home smelling like alcohol and bad decisions. He was subjected to drunk horny students trying to kiss him and allowed it sometimes, mainly out of curiosity and a faint buzz, but ultimately would leave to throw up in the bathroom or sober up on a walk home in the crisp air. He felt like his hormones weren’t acting quite right. He wasn’t horny out of his mind like his peers, desperate for touch and attention. Touch, itself, was overwhelming- slightly painful, if anything.

The years marched on much the same. He absorbed all the information sent his way and coasted through his classes with As. A few full-ride scholarships were already offered to him but he hadn't entirely decided on where he wanted to go. He knew he could graduate early, skipping senior year entirely, and decided then and there he was done with prolonging his time in high school.

He brought up his idea to graduate early to his parents and was met with enthusiasm. His Daddy in particular was proud he could boast to his colleagues that his son graduated early  _ and  _ had the option of going anywhere he wanted. It was a good discussion and validating for Will.

He had expected some concern, some blow back, about his attempts at socializing and being around people his age but it never came. He figured his parents had given up on that long ago and were fully content to let him ride the waves of academic freedom if it meant it took Will’s mind off darker things lurking in the corner of his psyche.

And so, he graduated early. He picked up his diploma from the office and didn’t bother with walking the stage or any ceremonies. High school wasn’t an accomplishment he particularly held too highly. He’d walk for his University degree but only because he knew his parents would appreciate it more than any want of his own. The idea of so many eyes on him was nauseating.

He was accepted in George Washington University to study Forensic Science and decided to stay there to pursue it through his graduate studies. At the encouragement of his parents, thinking it would serve as a cultural lesson and as great life experience for him, he decided to study abroad the first semester of school. He would have plenty of time to learn his home campus’ layout in the eventual years of studying and lab work.

With a vaguely remembered grasp on French-Creole from his early childhood in Louisiana and from studying in high school for elective he decided on Paris, France. At least he had somewhat of a grasp on the language he was about to immerse himself in.

As the day grew closer and closer to leaving his excitement grew. He took it easy, using the time to build memories with his family so he had something to look back on when he became homesick. More fishing trips with his Daddy and more adventures around town with his Mama. There were quiet evenings reading together in the living room and rowdy baking sessions in the kitchen. He even let loose a few times, dancing and singing along to Etta James with his parents as he baked breakfast rolls in the oven.

The day arrived. His bag was packed and he was off to board the plane to Paris. His Daddy pretending not to tear up as he clasped his hand on Will’s shoulder and said farewell. Accepting a warm full embrace from his Mama. He didn’t comment on the wet patch soaking into his shoulder.

He said goodbye. He said he loved them. He said he would call when he landed, his phone already set up for the long-distance calls.

And then he was off.

It wasn’t until he was in the plane’s bathroom, high in the air, where he found himself panicking: a dead man with curly brown hair and open blue eyes staring back at him through the glass of the mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is evolving from my original vision already but I'm just going with it and riding the wave.  
> re: combed through this chapter to fix grammar & spelling- decided to just leave it as is content wise.


	3. Beef Bourguignon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Across the way he spots a striking young man, tossed wild curls and out of place flannel. He cocks his head, slightly, while observing. Flor is rattling off some inane information in his ear- something about her current beau’s modeling career- and he can’t help but compare the man to a beautiful art piece. If he could choose a painter he’d choose Botticelli to paint the man as he was now, an angel in the middle of the square. Perhaps this man would be amiable to company, friendship. Perhaps he’d have something of worth hidden in that brain of his and not just a pretty face.

Hannibal was hesitant to call what he was doing as loitering but he couldn’t quite find another word to describe what he was doing. The campus courtyard was mostly empty, a few students standing around waiting for their next morning class to come around. He was currently in the presence of a few of his classmates in his biochemistry course, pretending to listen to their gossip and keeping a pleasantly passive face forward- nodding and humming where necessary. He didn’t particularly like these people but their parents would make good references once he graduated and moved onto medical school. Until then he was patiently putting up with their childish and rude behaviors, might turn a few of them into a meal or two before making his way to the United States.

Across the way he spots a striking young man, tossed wild curls and out of place flannel. He cocks his head, slightly, while observing. Flor is rattling off some inane information in his ear- something about her current beau’s modeling career- and he can’t help but compare the man to a beautiful art piece. If he could choose a painter he’d choose Botticelli to paint the man as he was now, an angel in the middle of the square. Perhaps this man would be amiable to company, friendship. Perhaps he’d have something of worth hidden in that brain of his and not just a pretty face.

As though sensing Hannibal’s gaze, peeking out the corner of his eye, the man started walking his way. Hannibal straightened, subtly adjusting his posture into something more welcoming and open.

“I believe we are about to have company,” Hannibal said.

Flor went quiet but he ignored her otherwise.

The man walked to them hesitantly, his steps jerky, as though he wanted to run the other direction before even engaging. He avoided eye contact, shoulders rounded and stiff around him. 

“Hello,” he said, American accent loud and clear in his French pronunciation. He had a nice voice, a pleasant timbre, even with the tense jaw.

Hannibal smiled and nodded.

“Hello.”

He heard Flor sniff from beside him, not deigning to give her own greeting. Hannibal suspected it was because of the flannel. Possibly, as the man got closer, from his choice in aftershave as well.

“Er… can you help me?,” The man asked, words slow and heavy on his tongue. “I need… find… psychology?”

Flor shifted behind him, stifling a giggle. It was cruel and barbed, malicious. Hannibal decided he would eat her first out of this group he found himself immersed in.

He saw the boy tense further, a scowl crossing his features. He shifted his feet, shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

“The psychology building is that way,” Hannibal replied, French falling flawlessly from his mouth.

“Repeat slower?,” The man asked. “Please.” After a pause.

Hannibal pointed in the general direction of the building with a vague gesture.

The man let out a frustrated sigh.

“Just go away, stupid American,” He heard Jean say, appearing at his left. “Figure it out on your own.”

Jean waved a hand at him, clearly dismissing him at first glance.

Perhaps Hannibal would eat Jean first instead.

The man went still, eyes darting up to lock with Jean’s and rooting him in place. He saw his mouth twist, holding back a snarl. Hannibal felt drawn in, intrigued. Surprised.

Slowly, the man held out a hand- clearly flipping Jean off- before turning and walking away with an angry stride.

Hannibal hesitated, glancing at his companions briefly, before deciding against going after the man. The man’s wounded pride would heal over soon and Hannibal was unlikely to run into him again. Unfortunately, he did need his companions to like him for the time being.

He saw as the man’s phone began to ring and he grabbed the cell from his pocket with a kind of jerkiness. He paused and took a deep breath, closing his eyes, and slowly relaxed his tense posture before answering the phone. Hannibal wasn’t close enough to hear anything, not even the timbre of his voice.

The rest of Hannibal’s day continued on in much the same vein as it usual did. Classes, taking meticulous notes, organizing those notes, politely denying to share said notes with his classmates- he had taken to writing them in various languages to discourage piggybacking- and then making his way back home. He had a decent amount of cuts frozen in his freezer currently so there was no real need to hunt though that crawling itch was beginning to make its way up his spine regardless.

He ignored it.

For dinner he prepared a meal of beef bourguignon. He took his time cutting the bacon strips and cubing the meat into perfect one inch cubes. Then he went to work prepping his vegetables and measuring out the alcohol- one bottle of Cote du Rhone and a nice half cup of Cognac.

He set them aside and went to work browning the bacon and drying the cubes, rubbing them with spices, before sitting them in the hot oil to sear. He let them sit and cook for four and a half minutes before retrieving them. He, too, set the meat aside.

He tossed the carrots and onions in with some spices, waiting for a light brown to take over, before tossing in the garlic. Next came the Cognac, in which he carefully burned off the alcohol.

He transferred the vegetables and meat back to the original pot and added the bottle of wine and beef broth, just enough to cover the meat, before adding the tomato paste and a dash of thyme. He lowered the heat and covered the pot before setting a timer for an hour and twenty minutes

For the next amount of time he sat in his study sketching. The only thing to come to mind was the shape of the stranger standing in the square. Hannibal sketched him in Botticelli’s style, an angel looking on humanity with quiet repulsion. It was a fine piece.

Hannibal heard his timer go off.

Reemerging into the kitchen he set to work adding the butter and flour to the stew and a few frozen onions. Then he sauteed some mushrooms and added them to the stew as well. He allowed the stew to boil before, once again, lowering the heat and letting it simmer. He idly added spices to compliment the flavors and set the garlic bread to toast in the oven.

His meal was ready.

He made his serving and retreated into his dining room before sitting at the head of the table, place already set and ready. He lit a few candles, the lights lowered to add to the ambiance, and ate alone.

The next day found him in the courtyard again, once again milling about and becoming bored with the tedium. These people truly found nothing entertaining to occupy themselves with beyond their gossip and cigarettes.

The man appeared again, looking lost in thought and vague. He was staring straight ahead, as though transfixed by something only he could see. He blinked and it was gone. Hannibal savored the image of him, taking a ragged breath as though breathing out some unknown terror from his mind. It made something in Hannibal ache- the beauty of this stranger’s private suffering. Perhaps Hannibal would build that bridge, to bed or eat the man he was unsure.

He heard Flor tisk from somewhere behind him, having caught sight of the stranger she found so lacking. He felt his lips tilt up in a small smile and he tossed it cheekily at her over his shoulder as he took his first steps away from the group.

Hannibal approached the stranger with a languid stride, quietly, as though prowling. He was certainly on a hunt, of sorts.

“Hello, again,” he said, standing directly behind the man. He took great relish in the way it made him jump, caught off guard.

The man spun on his heel and took two steps back, eyes wide and lips already curled. When he set his eyes on Hannibal those lips curled further into that delicious half-snarl he had yesterday.

“Hello,” the man replied, reluctantly. His eyes darted around, looking for an exit from the conversation.

“My name is Hannibal. May I have yours?”

The man sent him a sharp glance, assessing. Slowly, the man shook his head.

“No? Why not?”

The man glanced at Hannibal’s acquaintances, all observing and whispering amongst themselves. Immediately, Hannibal knew the man assumed they had put him up to this conversation- a “mean girl’s hazing” of sorts.

Hannibal intentionally rose a hand and waved it their way, clearly a dismissal. He threw a charming smile the man’s way.

“Don’t worry about them.”

Still, the man shook his head. Hannibal wanted to hear him speak in that soft timbre again. Perhaps he should switch to English.

Hannibal opened his mouth to do just that when the man’s phone went off once again, persistent and loud in the man’s pocket. Even he seemed surprised by the noise.

Hannibal glanced at the caller ID- Hannibal could see the word Daddy displayed on the screen- and cocked his head. At least he now knew this man was partial to men in some sense. That would make seducing him into his bed easier.

The man made a kind of groaning sound, as though exasperated, and sighed through his teeth. He glanced at Hannibal and shook his head, lowering his gaze and raising his hand in a half-hearted wave. A clear dismissal- a call that needs to be answered. Hannibal catalogued the borderline rude action in his mind, weighing his lusts against one another.

He heard a quiet, “Hey Daddy--” as the man walked away.

Perhaps he’d be calling another “Daddy” soon. Hannibal smirked and made his way back to his group with a carefully practiced shrug.

“I suppose he didn’t want to talk.”

They laughed.

He once again went to his classes, wrote his notes in scrawling Cyrillic, and then went home. Wash, rinse, repeat. He prepared leftovers from his stew and once again sat in his dining room, candles lit and light lowered for ambiance, and ate alone.

The next day, the man was back. This time he was in the courtyard early, arriving before Hannibal and crew in tow, already on the phone. He was sitting on the ledge of the fountain, a gentle smile on his face.

Hannibal watched as that small smile broke into a crooked grin, twitchy and awkward on his face.

“C’mon now, Mama. Don’t be like that.” A pause. “Yes, I’m eating. I promise.”

Hannibal watched as he tipped his head back and laughed, not too loud to call attention to himself. Completely unaware to his eager audience.

Hannibal waited patiently, torn between observing completely unhindered or wanting the man’s conversation to close so he may approach. Apparently, the man had other plans.

He stood up from the fountain ledge and began to walk away, completely oblivious to Hannibal’s greedy stare. Hannibal felt his lips twitch, a light frown gracing his features.

His day seemed to get more irritating by the minute. Jacques had tripped and spilled his coffee all over Hannibal’s pants and shoes, making him late to class for the first time. Perhaps Jacques would be the first to die. Perhaps tonight.

His classes went by slowly, nothing on actual note being taught in the lectures. For a sophisticated Pre-Med program many of the instructors were prone to distraction, easily swayed by their eager audience to speak of themselves and their accomplishments. It did nothing to distract Hannibal from the growing itch between his shoulder blades, the simmering discontent underneath his skin.

Once classes were over and done he made his way to Jacque’s home, posing as a visiting friend. He had recently purchased an oversuit, plastic and gaudy as it was, and was eager to give it a try.

Jacques didn’t even have a chance to scream, throat quickly lacerated and spraying Hannibal in the face with hot blood. Hannibal licked it from his lips like a hungry dog. He had to work quickly, lest Jacques die too soon and ruin Hannibal’s design.

He forced the choking man down, laying him out on his own dining room table, and tied him down with rope retrieved from Hannibal’s bag. He was spread eagle, choking and crying, gazing at Hannibal with wide pleading eyes. He had no idea why this was happening to him.

“That coffee was particularly hot, Jacques. It could have burned my leg. You should have watched where you were going.”

Hannibal retrieved a scalpel from his bag and weighed it in the hand. This would be good practice for the emergency room.

He climbed onto the table and straddled Jacque’s pelvis before taking a deep steading breath. As he made the first cut through the top layer of the dermis he maintained eye contact. Jacques tried to scream and found a mouthful of blood instead. Hannibal tutted at him.

Then laid down a second cut.

Then a third.

And the man was sufficiently open, lower belly cut open for Hannibal to root around in. He believed he would take the liver, perhaps the bowels. He had been craving sausage lately.

Jacques died with Hannibal’s arm pulling his intestines from his body.

Organs retrieved and placed in the cooler in the trunk of his car he set to cleaning the murder scene of evidence. He couldn’t risk being caught, with graduation so nearby. He considered the corpse, head cocked, and made a decision.

He approached the body with an artist’s eye. Was this sufficient enough to quell him? He usually went for a more theatrical approach, a nice tableau to leave as a gift for the authorities, but decided he was quite tired. Jacques bored him too much to inspire art. Perhaps the way he'd taste would inspire where the man did not.

He returned home and carefully cleaned his trophies, cleaning out the bowels and rinsing the grime off the liver. He packaged his goods and left them in the cooler for later use. Then he returned to finish the last of the beef bourguignon.

He once again lit candles, set the lights low, and ate alone.

He thought of wild curls tossed back, soft laughter, and half-snarls as he savored every bite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly dunno how I feel about this chapter cause Hannibal is a stinky person on the inside but here we are u.u I miss Jack.


End file.
